


Caged

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Basically what happened to Murphy in the grounder camp. Implied unrequited Murphamy. Non-explicit non-con.





	Caged

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically Murphy torture porn. I have no idea why I wrote this at midnight when I have work at 6 am

The world is hazy and warm and unexplainable. He feels happy despite not knowing where he is or how he got there. He can't even see. His eyes are closed and he tries to open them but they're stuck shut. But it isn't something he concerns himself with. That, or the fact he cannot seem to move correctly. He's not immobile exactly but it feels like his body is swimming through honey. Slow, delayed. But he can smell Bellamy and he knows everything will be okay. Bellamy is warm against him. And just the feeling of Bellamy's large, rough hands on him make him feel like he's coming and he thinks he is but he doesn't feel any wetness. Just warmth. He is in the womb. He realizes he is in the ocean. A warm, dark ocean, with a heartbeat.

It is his own heartbeat. Murphy awakes to his own heartbeat pounding at his temples. His head aches and there is blood in his eyes. He tries to wipe at his eyes but his arms are stuck. Tied behind his back.

There is a fire in the distance. Close enough to see, not close enough to feel.

Murphy is cold. He is disoriented. He shivers. He pulls himself up into a sitting position. It's harder to do than he would've thought, without the use of his arms. He feels wobbly, like a three-legged chair. He folds his legs beneath him for balance. The bars beneath him dig into his thighs.

He is in a cage. He feels dizzy as he turns his head to the left, then to the right, then upwards to look above him.

Barely an inch of space. If he was an inch taller his head would be touching the top bars of the cage.

Why is he in a cage? He had been in prison once. Maybe a prison is just a large cage. But this is a cage. A real cage. Something you'd put an animal in, not a human.

His head hurts so, so badly. He wishes he could feel the back of his head. It feels wet there, and tight. Like the feeling of blood that has mostly dried. He wants to feel at the blood on his head and see where it has come from. A cut? A gash? Is there a crater in his skull? Did they bash it open? Are the fluids from his brain leaking out the back of his cranium?

He's so cold. Why had his dream been so warm? He's shivering. He is wearing little more than a t-shirt and pants. The fire in the distance is mocking him. He wants to be warm.

Realistically, he knows it's from the blood loss. He's feeling colder because he's low on blood.

But that doesn't help him get warm. That doesn't stop the shaking feeling in his stomach.

He wants to call for help. But what would be the point of that? Who would help him? Nobody on this entire planet wants him alive, except maybe Mbege. And Murphy is sure Mbege is nowhere in the vicinity. He abandoned him because of Bellamy.

Murphy is utterly alone. If he calls for help the only ones who would come are the grounders.

They come anyway. He's not sure how long he sits there, shivering. Five minutes. Two hours. Most likely somewhere in between. They come with torches. One first, alone. He thrusts the fire close to Murphy's face. He squints at the sudden light. It makes the veins in his head throb harder. Then the grounder walks off. Murphy hears him calling in a language he doesn't understand.

Then more come back. Only some of them carry torches. Other carry weapons.

The cage is unlocked. He is free, except not at all. He is grabbed by the shoulders, the wrists, the throat. They force him closer to the fire. He still can't feel the heat, despite being bathed by the glow of the flames.

They slap him a few times. It hurts. Stings. But he knows how to take an open hand. His mother had been partial to this sort of punishment. They are stronger. Their slaps hurt more. But he doesn't make any noises. Doesn't beg. Doesn't cry.

Then the punches begin. The kicks. To the stomach. His lower back. Not to the face. Not yet.

They don't ask him anything that night. They beat him. When they return him to the cage his entire body aches and his breathing comes out ragged.

He falls asleep almost instantly.

It's light out when he awakes. He must have been asleep for a long time. There is no morning dew. No morning songbirds.

He's still in his cage but he is not in the same place. Somehow he was carried, or dragged, who knows, to a village. A grounder village.

There are people everywhere. They walk around him, seemingly wandering, no urgency in their steps. Women, children. They carry vases and baskets full of vegetables.

One of the children notices he has awaken. They point at him and say something to their friends in their weird language. Murphy is unsure if the child is a boy or a girl. It wears a skirt of some sort but no top.

The children speak in hurried, excited voices.

Children are gullible. Maybe he could convince them.

Murphy looks around to make sure no men or women were nearby. Nobody was paying attention to him.

“Hey, kid,” he calls out. He's surprised by how hoarse his own voice comes out. “Come here.”

He's surprised when one of them does. Not the first one. A bigger one. A boy, this one is. Murphy is unsure if the boy understands his words.

“I have some stuff in my cave I could give you,” he calls to the boy. “Let me out of here and you can have it all.” He's lying, he doesn't have anything in his cave beside some nuts, a couple handmade weapons, and a half-eaten cooked rabbit that would probably be going bad any time now.

The boy squints at him, as if contemplating. He turns to his companion, this one appears to be a girl. The girl gives him a hard look then pulls back at her arm.

A rock hits the bar of his cage.

The other children start bending down, gathering their own rocks. Most of them bounce off the bars but a few hit their mark. Murphy hurriedly turns, shielding his face. The stones bounce against his back. He tries to lift his arms, to cover the wound on the back of his head, but his arms don't reach that far.

Something pokes at his side. His head jerks to the side and he sees a pointed stick.

One of the boys has shoved the end of the stick between the bar and is jabbing at him. As cruel and mindless as pulling wings off a fly. Murphy turns and tries to kick at the stick with his foot but he is shoe-less and his feet are soft and vulnerable.

They grow bored when he stops fighting back.

They wander off and Murphy stays curled up in a ball, his breath hot against his own knees.

He stays like that for a long time. He listens to the sounds around him.

Birds. Footsteps. Pounding of some sort that is steady, rhythmic. Almost soothing. The sound of wood being chopped. Water splashing.

His own breathing is loudest. It sounds panicked. It's making his pants feel damp.

But he can't move. He can't force himself to uncurl from his protective ball. He wants to, his back is starting to ache, but he is frozen.

He is still in that position when they come for him again.

Murphy is brought to a hut. There is a fire in the middle and the hut is smokey. It stings his eyes.

They tie him in a corner. Two hooks on the walls hold his arms up and apart. He kneels on the floor. It is not a comfortable position. They have tied his arms too high, too tight. He is touching the floor but barely. His arms strain, wanting him to stand, to relieve the pressure on his shoulders.

They lay something heavy on his calves. A stone, he thinks. He can't move. It forces his knees and the tops of his feet deeper into the floor. The pressure of the hard wood digs into his skin.

Finally, they speak to him.

“Where are the rest of your people?”

He has no people. He is the only one of his people.

He has been banished.

Murphy isn't trying to be brave. He isn't trying to protect anybody. He is just being honest when he replies, “I am the only one.”

They burn him. Hot poles are pulled from the fire, one by one, and pressed into the flesh of his shoulders. He screams and tries to pull free. The pressure on his shoulders becomes a painful rip.

It doesn't last long. Maybe five seconds each time?

They ask him more questions.

Where are you from? Why did your people bomb our village? What weapons do your people possess? Are your people working with the mountain men? What did your people come here for?

He doesn't answer them. Or he gives answers that make no sense to them.

“I have a shitty knife,” he tells them. And “Who the fuck are the mountain men?”

They give him a little water. Just enough to make him even thirstier.

They leave him there, in his chains, for how many hours. Only the cracking and smoking of the fire there to keep him company.

He watches the fire. It dances. It soothes him. He sees images in the flames. The face of one of his teachers from elementary school. A drawing of his from when he was seven. The pattern of bolts along his cell's back wall. He doesn't mind the smoke now. The sting of his eyes feels almost good. A distraction from the stinging of his shoulders.

It's dark out when they take him out of the hut. They chain him up in the middle of the town. They whip him. Blood flows down his back. They collect it in bowls and he watches as the women and children of the village laugh in front of him, drinking from the bowls.

Their mouths are red with his blood.

They lock him back in his cage that night with his hands free. He has trouble sleeping. There is not enough room to lay out on his stomach and the slightest brush against his back startles him awake with pain.

He is awoken this time. The smell of burning is overwhelming. The village must've caught fire. They're leaving him to die in this cage. His skin burns.

But the burns feel weird. There is powder on him. He jumps. He hits at his arms, his face. His skin burns. Gray dust falls around him.

Hot ash. Some of it still burning. He looks up and sees grinning faces through the cage bars. The ash in the air makes them blurry, ethereal. Like some malevolent gods staring down upon him, passing judgment.

They take him to a different hut. They ask their questions. He gives no answers. Not even sarcastic ones. His throat hurts. He's thirsty. He's hungry.

They feed him. Raw meat. There is sinew and tiny bones and fur and crunchy skulls. Mashed up mice, he thinks, or squirrels maybe. They tie his hands behind his back again and force him to eat the disgusting mush off the floor. But it smells fresh and he hasn't eaten in days so he does so. There is some liquid after to wash it all down.

He vomits it all back up ten minutes later. Some of it comes out his nose. He can't even wipe his face or move the hair out of his eyes. They give him more of the liquid and he vomits more.

Some sort of drug that makes you sick, he realizes. Not immediately, but after a few minutes.

When they offer it to him a third time he turns his head miserably. They laugh and chain him to the wall.

They leave him alone for awhile in the room. It stinks of chewed up dead rats and bile.

They're not gone long this time.

They cut his stomach and chest. They burn him again. They pull out his nails, one by one, and they poke small needles into the bottom of his feet.

He tells them the answers to their questions but his words are indistinguishable through his screams and tears.

They take him to a room with a large tub. It stinks horribly. There are drying animal hides tacked along all the walls. The tub steams with hot water. When they force him into it it scalds, the open wounds on his skin especially tender to the burns. The water smells. It isn't water. Some sort of tanning chemicals, he thinks. Maybe piss. It smells like piss. It's not yellow.

They pull him out and throw him in his cage.

Everything hurts. He cannot find a comfortable position. And the sun is still up. He wants to sleep but he cannot.

He tries to sit squarely on his behind because it's the only part of him they have not hurt in some some way, as of yet. His legs and back and chest and stomach all throb, the open wounds oozing.

Murphy sits there for a long time, his head drooping. He doesn't sleep but he is not conscious. He is somewhere else.

When he comes to he thinks he must be dying. The thought makes him smile.

It is dark now. They open his cage once more. He is pulled over by a large fire in the middle of the village.

They don't undress him for this. They pull his pants down and shove him over a log. The cuts on his stomach chafe against the bark. He feels wetness. They hold his hands down on the ground in front of him.

He doesn't fight them. What's the point?

Now he'll die, he's sure. That would be nice. Maybe they'll puncture a hole through his intestines and he'll bleed out. Maybe they'll just break his neck and be done with it, once they're through with him.

It hurts. But what doesn't these days? The first one is the hardest.

It lasts a long time. They're taking turns. At first he feels blood down his thighs, hot and fast, but eventually he knows it's not just blood. It's slower. Thicker. It itches.

His insides feel slick.

He fades in and out. He thinks about Bellamy. About how he had fantasized about doing this with him. Bellamy hadn't been the first man he had thought about that way but he had been the first that Murphy had felt so connected to. The first to have filled him with confidence. The first to evoke such feelings of loyalty inside him.

He had wanted Bellamy to be his first.

He's awake when the first birds of dawn begin to sing. He's not sure when he goes back out.

He's awoken to fists against his face. It hurts more than he would have ever thought. After everything he had been through he hadn't imagined a simple punch could hurt that much.

Murphy answers them immediately. He screams the answers again and again. They still hurt him. But they give him water. The first drink he had since he had vomited the day before. It feels so good on his throat. They hurt him more. He drinks more. They feed him a few nuts. They taste good.

They burn his face this time. Even though he's answering their questions. He would answer without the pain. They don't have to hurt him. They hurt him. But they don't have to hurt him. Why are they hurting him?

He's asleep without realizing it. He doesn't remember going back to his cage.

His cage is open.

There is nobody around but his cage is open.

He doesn't run. He stays where he is, waiting.

This is a trick. If he runs. If he even goes towards the door. They'll kill him.

But he wants to die.

He crawls to the front of the cage. He waits for anything. A spear through his chest. An arrow through his skull.

Nothing.

He stands up. His feet are sore.

Everything is sore.

He's alive.

He's not sure if he wants to be alive.

Murphy closes his eyes and waits. He's ready for death, he just doesn't want to see it coming. It'll be easier to just have it over with.

Nothing.

He sees freckles on the back of his eyelids.

He wants Bellamy. He doesn't know why, he's too messed up with pain and hunger and exhaustion to know why he wants Bellamy, but more than anything he wants to see those freckles one more time.

He stumbles through the forest in what he hopes is the direction of the dropship.


End file.
